<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Foot Caught in the Door (This Time) by snowbellewells</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590594">Foot Caught in the Door (This Time)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowbellewells/pseuds/snowbellewells'>snowbellewells</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:26:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowbellewells/pseuds/snowbellewells</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones has always been able to charm his way out of whatever trouble his traveling salesman gig might get him into, but he might not be able to slip away so easily from Sheriff Emma Swan. And in the end, does he even want to?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Hook | Killian Jones &amp; Emma Swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Captain Swan Movie Marathon</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Foot Caught in the Door (This Time)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here we go shipmates, my third and final entry to the @captainswanmoviemarathon! I have worried and obsessed over this au of The Music Man (one of my very favorite movies/musicals of all time), but I’m going to have to send it out of my hands and see what you think at last. I’m hoping to keep some elements of the original’s plot, but it’s also going to have some noticeable departures as we go along. Still, I hope you’ll enjoy it and come along for the ride.</p>
<p>The title comes from a line in the musical, which if you’ve never seen it, will make sense later on in the story.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The dusty street was deserted in the early afternoon as Killian Jones hopped off the train in the cozy little town, briefcase in hand. He gave a jaunty wink and tip of his cap back at the shocked - and one very angry - faces pressed against the glass as the engine chugged back out of the station, picking up speed and heading on down the tracks. He’d timed that just right, if he did say so himself, smugly satisfied grin on his face as he straightened his lapels and stretched his back after the long ride. Served that old windbag right anyway - spilling his secrets and spoiling his con before he could even get a start. They were all a bunch of hucksters; he was merely better at it than most. Jealousy and sour grapes was what his fellow salesman was really about - stirring up trouble and turning others against him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’d intended to take the railway all the way up to Madawaska, on the Canadian border, knowing with a name like that and its proximity to another country it would be out of the way enough to have missed hearing of any schemes and scams like the ones which were his livelihood. Plus, if anything went wrong, slipping across a nearby border into foreign jurisdiction less interested in pursuit or prosecution of crimes that didn’t concern them was always a welcome bit of added insurance. Still, when that loudmouth whistleblower had started his yarn, eventually laying bare Killian’s whole play from first contact to final collection and getting the entire diner car full of traveling salesmen stirred up and out for blood, he had known it was time to beat a hasty retreat.  Apparently the roaring success he’d enjoyed a few years back when he last cut a swath across New England was still making things difficult for those who plied a similar trade.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As Killian had slipped throught he throng of ever-louder and more irascible men in the aisle, he had been unable to resist one quick jab. He was after all disembarking, well before he’d reached his intended destination. As he neared the steps down to the platform, preparing to leap off quickly just before the train pulled out of the station again, he had offered the man a friendly nod and spoken up with all the faux sincerity he could muster. “That’s quite the tale, Friend,” he commented, directing his question to the potstirrer intently. “How did you say you knew this scoundrel again?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I - “ the man opened his mouth to start the diatribe over again, but then halted abruptly. “Wait a minute! What’s is to you, Mister? I don’t believe I caught your name.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Killian smirked, letting the man before him know that he’d been hoodwinked, with the slightest of bows, he’d quipped, “That makes sense. You see, I don’t believe I dropped it.”  With that he was off the train, alighting on the station platform, and swinging his bag around to where those on board could clearly see his name emblazoned on its side - and realize that he was the very same dashing rapscallion against whom they had just been plotting. Served them all right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Turning to take in the view of the little burg he’d landed in, Killian Jones wondered if it wouldn’t suit his purposes just as well. It seemed quaint and quiet and out-of-the-way enough, and in need of a bit of excitement. He was already beginning to craft his opening pitch to himself when he caught sight of a signpost reading Storybrooke.  ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>What a charming name,’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Yes, this might be just right after all.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>     ******************</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rather brisk September evening seemed just like any other in Storybrooke, Maine to Sheriff Emma Swan as she locked her office - not even a separate building in such a small and peaceful town, just a corner of the town hall with its own entrance and exit door of the side of the large, old, and cheerfully lemon-yellow building. Turning to make her way homeward on the leisurely walk she had come to enjoy most autumn days around twilight, she was just debating whether she should bring home some of the Sweet Shoppe’s Cinnamon Rolls to her parents and younger brother, when an unfamiliar-looking figure caught her attention.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man just ahead of her, dressed rather snazzily for a town full of farmers and tradesmen in their faded pants and shirtsleeves, was slim and moved with a sort of swagger that made him stand out to her sharp observational eye. The bright scarlet vest beneath his slick suit grabbed her notice all the more as he glanced over his shoulder furtively before sliding through the half-open door of the livery.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Interest piqued and healthy nose for trouble on the alert, Emma changed her course from her previous path toward the center of town, where the Widow Lucas ran a booming business of malt shop, candy kitchen, and delicatessen all in one, and instead bent her steps toward the livery where the sharp dressed stranger had disappeared. Of course, she reasoned with herself, wondering at the impulsive and quite probably needless snooping in which she was about to engage, she was only doing her duty as sheriff. The town’s safety had been entrusted to her - rather dubiously by some of the more backward-minded gents, who still found it an odd and unsuitable profession for a female. She wasn’t about to give any further cause for doubt by letting something underhanded go on right under her nose.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her mind made up, she ignored the fluttering sensation in her stomach and moved forward silently. It was only natural that she felt both a frisson of excitement and a tremor of fear; nothing truly unparalleled or genuinely dangerous had ever really happened in Storybrooke that she could recall. It was probably how her father’s endorsement in his popular and long-running capacity as mayor (that and the lack of other candidates) had been enough to help Emma make a successful bid for the sheriff’s post. In other words, Storybrooke was far from a bustling thoroughfare or a tourist stop; very rarely did they receive out of towners or newcomers, much less tall and darkly attractive ones who seemed…  She snorted out loud at her own ridiculous musings. Stopping short right in the street as she shook the girlish drivel from her head, she chided herself.  A pretty face and reckless charm - she’d been down that road before - and she was not about to be easily taken in a second time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmph,” she grunted under her breath, nearing the wooden door their unknown visitor had entered just a few minutes before. “Just make sure this scallawag isn’t casing the livery, sneaking and planning something nefarious. If he’s doing something normal, renting a carriage or some such, Emma, then more’s the better and you’re done with it.” So decided, Sheriff Swan leaned in as close to the open sliver of light between the two large doors into the livery, squinting to focus on what she could see.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The unidentified man she had followed stood on the far side of the open space within view, just off to the left of where the livery manager, one Marcellus Smee, where he was sat comfortably on a bale of hay polishing and repairing various pieces of riding tack. The man looked unperturbed and even a bit wide-eyed with awe up at his visitor as the newcomer began to speak, making Emma wonder if Smee knew the gentleman. At any rate, the man clearly wasn’t hiding his presence as she had first suspected, and if he knew someone here in Storybrooke, that too made his arrival seem more sensible. Still, the idea that this was more than it appeared continued to nag at her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She ought to simply leave, go back to the business she’d had before glimpsing this stranger as he crossed the street. And yet, Emma had never been one to do things the easy way.  If only she could hear what they were saying…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hardly daring to breathe, Emma tried to strain her ears just that tiny bit more, hoping to hear even a snatch of what the two men were discussing. Though he hadn’t given her any trouble in ages, Marcellus Smee had been an unapologetic pickpocket and drunk, landing hmself in her holding cell more than once for petty theft back when she was just beginning her term as sheriff. The rather rotund little man had always managed to post his own bail though, had never shown her any disrespect nor hints of real violence or mean-spiritedness. He seemed to have turned over a new leaf once hiring on at the livery a couple years back, and she and “Smee” had long since come to an understanding. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>However, she had also done her research. When she had been keeping him under closer surveillance, she had also learned that he’d once been part of a larger grifting outfit, right hand to a swindler known in law-keeping circles as “the Captain”. A real golden-tongued pirate who could charm coins from a miser and had never been caught. Could this be that infamous ringleader here before her? Had Smee not been as reformed as she had believed?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Emma noticed that the gentleman from the train station had now removed the fine hat and suit jacket draping them neatly over the door of an unoccupied horse stall as he began rolling up his sleeves, presumably to join Marcellus with his work as they talked. However, before he sat, the man cocked his head for a moment as if sensing or hearing something that made him hesitate.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She froze, certain she hadn’t made a noise, and yet not knowing what else could have arrested the stranger’s attention so. Torn between backing away and leaving before she could be detected, and sure it must be something else he was looking at, Emma remained motionless, telling herself uselessly that she had every right to stand at the livery entrance anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The stranger’s face turned to gaze right at the door, as if he were unerringly staring right at her, even though she knew it must be impossible. Eyes cool and blue under heavy dark brows made the stare directed her way seem all the more piercing and intent. For a second, Emma couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Then, his face returned to look at Smee’s, head tilting back in a full-throated laugh at something the shorter man said. He nodded at some gesture of Smee’s and moved out of her line of sight, presumably to fetch something they needed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Emma held her breath, preparing to leave - none the wiser perhaps, but momentarily assured that no mischief was happening immediately. She was just turning to make her getaway when the door to her left swung open abruptly to reveal the very man she had been spying on standing there before her, knowing look on a face too handsome to be real - annoying and embarrassing her immediately as she stumbled backwards in surprise.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoa there, easy,” the stranger practically crooned, much as one would do to settle a spooked horse. His hand shot out with impressive speed to catch her arm as she nearly fell backward, stilling her arms from pinwheeling to regain her ballance. The sudden stop jerked her forward in response, making her fall against a solid chest, the hand not caught within his grasp flattening across the muscle and warmth she could feel even through his shirt and waistcoat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cheeks flaming, Emma jerked away from him, stammering at her own clumsiness and the affect his proximity was having on her in spite of herself. “I’ll thank you to unhand me, Mister…. Mister…” her scathing retort fumbled with the lack of knowledge, not able to castigate him by name. However, she did manage to pull her slender wrist easily from his slackened hand as he stared at her for a silent moment, dumbfounded by every inch of her appearance, and to put several quick, backward steps between them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Smee had stood up like a shot behind them in the barn and was fidgeting and twitching as uneasily as Killian had ever seen him do. The man truly was not cut out for the life of a huckster, Killian thought - not for the first time. He wouldn’t drag his former accomplice into his current gig at all except for the fact that this was the big one - it might finally set him up with enough to buy his real treasure back at long lost - and give up this slippery hustle for good. And there was no one better at locating difficult to find items than Marcellus Smee.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly realizing that they didn’t know how long this blonde vision - beautiful despite the rather unusual figure she cut in trousers like a man, green eyes flashing with intelligence along with the embarrassment and… was that attraction? - had been standing at the door listening. He needed to get the situation under control quickly and keep her from leaving before he could gather what she knew. “Killian, milady,” he offered in a playfully genteel answer to her unspoken question. “Killian Jones.” He waggled an eyebrow at her salaciously. “And pardon me, but you were the one lingering and listening at keyholes,” he pointed out. “I merely attempted to keep you from falling on your arse.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Emma jerked upright; her back going ramrod straight in affront as her mouth fell open in shock for several seconds. She wasn’t used to being spoken to so bluntly - rather from the fact that she was a woman (even if most considered her rather eccentric with her masculine profession, mode of dress and single status), or due to a healthy mix of fear and respect for both her position and her father, the mayor’s, as well. Spluttering for just a second, she grasped words for a sharp comeback. “Well, if you weren’t skulking around town, popping into honest establishments like some shifty ne’er-do-well, then I wouldn’t need to follow and make sure all is well, would I?” she shot back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Skulking?” Killian burst out full of wide-eyed disbelief and voice pitched higher as if to project the ‘can you believe this?’ sort of gesture for support. “Skulking, she says. How do you like that? I’ve just gotten off the train and come to see an old friend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Smee chuckled nervously, looking torn between between siding with Jones and scuttling off before the lady sheriff turned her scrutiny onto him. “Aye, I heard her, Cap’n.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Emma’s brow furrowed at the odd title, remembering those old files and Smee’s former connections, and she crossed her arms while continuing to stare down this Killian Jones. Whatever he was up to - and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> up to something - he was slippery as an eel, she could already see. And he wasn’t going to pull some sort of flim-flam scheme - not here in her town.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Captain?” she queried, latching onto Smee’s words. “Funny name to be calling someone on dry land, isn’t it? And old friends, are you? Just how do you two know each other? You’ve lived here nearly five years now, Mr. Smee, and I’ve never seen your friend here before.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, uh, haven’t you?” Smee queried rather densely. His nervous hands pulled the handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow and then worried the edges as if the busier he kept his hands, the less likely he was to start talking and incriminate himself. “Well, um, you see, we worked together some years ago, before I moved here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Emma found herself almost wanting to pat him on the back and wish him better luck next time. It was a good thing she knew he was more or less harmless, as she had never met anyone who looked quite so obviously guilty. His “friend”, on the other hand, she found herself equally tempted to punch him right in his pretty face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes slide from the nervous fidgeting of Marcellus Smee back to the unknown quantity of Killian Jones. He stared right back at her unblinking, confident smile on his face, clearly waiting for her to make a move and also certainly knowing that she had nothing to hold against him. Making the decision to play nice for the moment and simply keep her eyes and ears open, Emma pursed her lips and hummed an unconvinced sort of sound at Smee’s shoddy explanation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well,” she warned, offering a hand to Jones to shake firmly. “I’ll pretend I believe that tale. Welcome to Storybrooke, Mr. Jones. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Smee looked relieved as this Killian Jones smiled rakishly and took her offered hand. Once he had though, Emma tugged him closer, not about to let go without making her point. “Just know that I am neither blind nor stupid. Your charm doesn’t fool me. I’ve been burnt by your type before. Stay on the right side of the law, and we’ll get along just fine, but don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Killian Jones leaned even nearer, warm breath ghosting across Emma’s cheek as he had the audacity to chuckle at her vow. “Make no mistake, Sheriff, I would despair if you did.” He straightened with a smirk when she dropped his hand abruptly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirling, Emma stomped from the livery, not daring to look back, as she knew her cheeks were flushed and tingling sensation crawled all over her skin. Once she was well out of sight, she leaned against a clapboard wall in a side alley trying to catch her breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That cad! The sheer nerve of him! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Finally, she felt herself back under control and resumed her way home once more, determined to start looking into this Killian Jones and what he might be up to first thing in the morning. The knowledge she fought not to entertain was that her heart was still racing… and she rather liked the feel of it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>